


Something Thicker Than Water

by hwc



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Family, Fandom Secrets Secret Santa 2013, Gen, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:07:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwc/pseuds/hwc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after he last saw the Dursleys Harry gets an unexpected letter. Harry has long chosen his family, but some ties deserve to be mended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Thicker Than Water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunabee34 (Lorraine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorraine/gifts).



  
_Dudley Dursley_

  


That’s what the envelope said, in the light blue ink of a muggle ball point pen. 

  


Harry stared. What, in god's name, could _Dudley_ possible write him for? "Kreacher, how did the letter arrive?" Harry asked. The house wasn't listed in any muggle registry, he wasn't in the muggle phonebook, and even if Dudley could have somehow gotten his hands on a wizard registry, all Harry's private information including the location of his home was under special protection spells to ensure his privacy and safety. 

  


Kracher's eyebrows rose at the inquiry. "By owl, master. Wretched, wild, wilful little beast," he added in a mutter, eyes darkening. "Unworthy of carrying letters to Master Harry Potter....” 

  


Harry ignored his old house elf, turning the envelope in his hands over and over. Here was his name, in the same light ink as Dudley’s. Not a mistake, then. There was his cousin’s name again, in the place where muggles would write the return address, utterly baffling. 

  


How would Dudley even get his hands on an owl? Why would he want to? Why would he want to write to _Harry_? He let the letter fall onto the desk as he regarded it suspiciously, retrieving his wand to cast a few detection spells on the envelope. Surely it couldn’t actually be from Dudley. It might be a trap; Kreacher screened all unfamiliar owls that came to the house (the first few months after the war there had been a constant flood of letters; everything from thanks to letters of admiration and marriage proposals to threats and curses from those that had thrived under Voldemort’s brief reign) and was usually rather adept at detecting dark magic – the mark of a servant of the Black family, Harry thought – but a little caution never hurt anyone. 

  


But every spell declared the same: before him lay an utterly normal, magic-less envelope. Completely muggle. Which made sense, as Dudley was also completely muggle, except his cousin also hated magic and hated _him_ , and Harry thought he might have preferred it if the letter had been some kind of trick. When was the last time they’d seen each other? Jamie was fifteen this year, and the last time Harry had seen or been in contact with any Dursley was the summer after sixth year. 

  


Well, he hadn’t been sorted into Gryffindor for nothing, he supposed. The envelope ripped itself open with a flick of his wand, dropping a few thick sheets of paper into his hands. The good stationary, he noted. The kind Aunt Petunia had used to write Christmas and birthday letters to Marge and whoever else she thought she had to suck up to. Harry hadn’t been allowed to touch it, of course, but Petunia would never have sent a letter that wasn’t absolutely perfect; whenever she had made a mistake or her fountain pen had made a blot she’d start over with a fresh sheet. She hadn't minded when Harry nicked the discarded paper for his drawings. 

  


  


_Dear Harry,_ the letter read in the same handwriting as on the envelope. 

  


_I hope this letter finds you well. You are probably surprised to hear from me after all this time and I can only hope that you don’t throw it away the moment you see my name._

  


_I also hope that this time my letter will actually reach you; I have tried to send you a letter a few years ago through our post, figuring that maybe wizards had a way of monitoring our postal system, but the letter was returned to me unopened, so I guess that is not the case. Or maybe I just like to think that, as the only other option would be that the letter did reach you and you rejected it, which would not bode well for this one, either._

  


_The reason why I try to reach you again now is because I think that my daughter may be like you. Strange things keep happening around her and I have suspected that she might have magic for a while, but today I became sure when her hair suddenly changed colour from one moment to the next while arguing with her mother._

  


_I was there when it happened and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that kind of magic, but I can’t think of another explanation and I know it wasn’t a trick of the light because Holly, our daughter, still has red hair. I’m pretty sure my wife, Elaine, doesn’t know about magic as she is still rather shocked and upset. I think she thinks that Holly and I are playing a trick on her._

  


_But I’m not, I swear! I really think Holly might be magic, and we need help to sort out Holly’s hair, if nothing else. You are the only wizard I know and while you certainly don’t owe me anything and it would be completely understandable if you refused to have anything to do with me or my family I would be eternally grateful if you could maybe at least send someone to sort out Holly._

  


_There also wouldn’t be any chance of running into my parents. Elaine and I have more or less severed all ties with them, and only see them on birthdays and Christmas at best, and even then only if we can’t find a way out of it._

  


_I guess what I’m saying is that even though I realise that I have no right to I really hope that you will help us. I obviously only know the wizards you were friends with and came by the house during summer which aren’t a lot, but even if I knew more I think that I would still be writing this letter to you. Even aside from Holly there’s so much I wish to talk to you about and apologise for, and I hope that despite everything you might give me the chance to do that._

  


_Sincerely,_

  


_Dudley_

  


Well. 

  


Well, wasn’t that. 

  


Something. 

  


That was definitely something. Harry stared at the letter in his hands, a few of the words jumping out at him. _Daughter_ , _magic_ , _wife_ , _apologies_. That was not what he had expected. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it certainly wasn’t that. 

  


Dudley’s daughter a witch? Was that irony? Poetic justice? Or utterly terrifying, Harry thought, remembering the summer before second year, the stench and oppressive heat in his room after Dobby. 

  


That was-- But no. No, the letter sounded nothing like Uncle Vernon’s enraged roaring after incident in the kitchen, and there certainly wasn’t any mention of cat-flaps in the letter either. Though he wouldn't mention them if he wanted Harry's help, would he? 

  


Harry shook his head. No, Dudley sounded genuinely... _nice_. Which was the problem, wasn’t it? Dudley wasn’t nice, not to anyone, certainly not to Harry. Though he could be rather charming whenever he had wanted something. Dudley hadn’t cared much for Marge either, but if it had boosted his chance of getting an expensive present to rub into Harry’s face he had been the sweetest of angels. Or at least as sweet and angelic as Dudley Dursley had been capable of being. 

  


If his daughter really was a witch... A witch in a Dursley household; Harry shuddered just thinking about it. So what if Dudley didn’t have his parents over for tea every Sunday afternoon; Dudley hadn’t exactly embraced Harry’s magic either. That could have been Vernon and Petunia’s influence, a tiny voice in his mind pointed out. Harry hated that voice; it was the same voice that made him go to those stupid ministry balls in his honour even though he’d rather be shovelling Hippogriff dung for a fortnight. 

  


Really though, was there any way Harry could _not_ go? Even if he could convince himself that there was absolutely no chance at all of the girl coming to any kind of harm for her magic (he couldn’t, not entirely. Seventeen years of living with the Dursleys were too long to simply be forgotten), Harry had to admit that now that Dudley got into contact with him, he was kind of curious to see what had become of his cousin. 

  


Harry glanced at Kreacher, who was still muttering beside him. That really must have been some owl, to leave the house-elf that disgruntled. “Kreacher,” he said, snapping him out of his ranting. “I’ll be going out today.” It was only nine o’clock and Harry hadn’t had his breakfast yet, but now that he had made his decision he saw no point in wasting time. Jumping headlong into things was how Harry operated. 

  


Besides, he had gone about his day missing more than just a breakfast at the Dursleys, he thought with a wry grin. 

  


“Very well, Master Harry Potter sir. Will Master Harry Potter sir be home for Kreacher to make dinner?” Kreacher looked hopefully at Harry. It was the middle of the school year so the boys were at Hogwarts, Lily was at staying at the Burrow for the weekend and Ginny and Hermione were working. Harry had originally planned to spend the day at home and go see the Cannons game in Spearwick this evening, but if he left for Dudley’s now and went to the game later he would be leaving Kreacher alone all day. 

  


Old Kreacher wasn’t dealing too well with being left alone anymore. It wasn’t surprising, after having lived in solitude for well over a decade after Regulus’ death. Between the four of them Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny always tried avoiding leaving Kreacher alone for any length of time. The children had made things easier, though Kreacher was perhaps the saddest when fall took the boys away to Hogwarts again. 

  


“I’ll be home for an early dinner,” Harry promised. He might miss the game but he could always catch Ron later. 

  


“Kreacher will have dinner ready,” Kreacher croaked, disappearing with a crack to reappear seconds later with Harry’s cloak folded neatly over his arms. Harry shrugged it on while Kreacher slid the letter back into the envelope before handing it back to Harry and trailing after him to the front door. 

  


“You’ll be all right, Kreacher?” Harry asked. 

  


The old house-elf drew himself up. “Kreacher will clean the parlour and weed the garden while Master Harry Potter sir is gone!” he proclaimed indignantly, as though the notion of being not all right while Harry was gone was an affront to his house-elf honour. Harry called a quick good-bye before Kreacher threw the door closed in his face. 

  


Right then. The return address on the envelope was entirely unfamiliar, meaning Apparition was out. Harry grinned. Only one way to get somewhere you’ve never been to, he thought, slipping his wand into his hand. 

  


* * * 

  


Harry didn’t know if he had simply gotten used to the Knight Bus or if Ernie’s driving style had mellowed over the years, but the Bus had certainly become one of his favourite ways of transportation short of flying and Apparition. He certainly preferred the Bus over the Floo Network. 

  


At a quarter to ten one Saturday morning Harry Potter got his first glimpse into the life his cousin had made for himself. Rather than the soulless, meticulously groomed and utterly boring normalcy of Privet Drive, Dudley’s new house was sat in a charming suburban neighbourhood full of homes that mirrored some of their occupants’ personality. 

  


Dudley lived in one of the newer looking, more modern houses that would have sent Vernon into a rant about all that newfangled nonsense and what an affront it was to proper, British, _normal_ sensibilities. What Harry could see of the garden while walking up the drive-way was nowhere near the perfectly maintained garden Petunia had always insisted on. The grass was a few days late in mowing, the hedges needed to be trimmed and even from a few feet away Harry could see that weeds were starting to set root in the flower beds. It was a nice garden and taken care of by most people’s standards, but Harry could see why Petunia didn’t come to visit too often; she’d sniff so hard at the state of the garden alone that her face would probably end up stuck in an eternal grimace of distaste. 

  


If it hadn’t already, that is. 

  


The sight made him feel slightly more optimistic about this visit, though. However Dudley had turned out, he clearly hadn’t grown up to be his parents. 

  


As he rung the doorbell and waited for an answer he looked around a bit, noting the other people on the street. Harry was the first to admit that he’d never been much for fashion, muggle or wizard, but even he had noticed that the clothes he’d left the house with had been distinctly not muggle. While on the Knight Bus he’d transfigured his sweater into a nice dress shirt and the cloak into a muggle coat, glad that he’d at least already worn a nice pair of jeans, a gift from Andromeda last Christmas, as he was, pardon the pun, truly pants at transfiguring trousers. A subtle cleaning charm later and Harry had been satisfied that he wasn’t blundering around like most wizards when confronted with the Muggle World. 

  


The door opened and Harry came face to face with who he supposed was Dudley’s wife, Elaine. The woman had blonde hair and brown eyes, was a little bit taller than Harry (not a particularly difficult feat, to be honest) and was of rather average built. Not stunningly beautiful, but not hideously ugly either. The kind of normal woman Vernon and Petunia might have approved off. Though they had always thought that Dudley was destined to become some kind of Casanova, so maybe the woman was altogether too plain for their precious Diddykins, 

  


"Can I help you?” the woman asked politely, if a little reservedly. Harry blinked, a sense of not-right sending a spike of adrenaline through his body, courtesy of his Auror years. He took a closer look at maybe-Elaine Dursley, but all he saw was tired eyes and friendly wariness. 

  


General paranoia and distrust associated with the Dursleys? Maybe, though he didn’t quite think so. Nor could he sense any immediate danger, however, and Harry had learned to trust his instincts over the years. Ten years of working as an Auror and Harry trusted his gut feeling more than most people. 

  


“Yes, hello,” he said, giving his possible cousin-in-law a small smile. “My name is Harry. Dudley sent me a letter?” he said, making the last sentence a question as he held up the letter in question. 

  


Probably-Elaine Dursley’s eyes widened in recognition, surprise and shock warring on her feature’s for a moment before she calmed a bit, though much too quickly by Harry’s estimation. Definitely magic. 

  


“Of course, please, come in! Dudley will be so happy you came!” she said with muted enthusiasm, ushering Harry in. 

  


Like the outside the interior of the house was much more modern than what Harry had grown up with. Gone were the colourful floral prints and delicate lace, in its place was warm, cream-coloured furniture that made the house seem welcoming and lived-in. The living room to which he was shown was perhaps a tad larger than Privet Drive’s, about the same size as the parlour at Grimmauld Place, just a bit more cluttered. But what caught Harry’s attention wasn't the furniture or the large flat screen opposite the couch – which could not have been a telly, even if it was in the exact spot a telly should have been. Harry remembered tellies – they were huge, clunky monstrosities compared to the flat, sleek screen that now sat where a telly should be – or even the numerous family snapshots that adorned the walls. Rather it was the glimpse of the stairs he could see through the door that astounded him, made him uncomfortable, made him feel out of place and like his skin was a two sizes too small for him to fit in. 

  


Beneath the stairs, hidden away in the spandrel stood a Davenport, a few sheets of papers and what looked like a newspaper strewn haphazardly across its surface. It wasn’t so much the piece of furniture that made it hard to breathe, but what it stood for. The absence that was thrown into Harry’s face. 

  


No cupboard under the stairs. 

  


There was a distant part of him that realised how ridiculous he was being, staring at what wasn’t a cupboard under the stairs, but the rest of him was caught in that dark, tiny little space that he shared with the spiders for the first eleven years of his life. 

  


“It belonged to my grandmother.” 

  


Harry started badly as Elaine suddenly spoke next to him, wand slipping into his hand. His heart was beating a mile a minute as he stared at her. He seemed to have startled her as well, as the tea cups she carried on a tray sat askew their saucers. Harry blinked, finally throwing off the numbness in his mind. “I’m sorry,” he said, standing to take the tray from her. “My mind must have wandered. What did you say?” 

  


Harry frowned. When had she gone and gotten the tea set? He hadn’t even noticed that she wasn’t with him anymore. How long had he sat there, staring at the stairs? 

  


He snuck a look towards the direction she came from. He could see part of kitchen through another door, and as he listened closely he thought he might have heard the sound of water boiling. Had he really been out of it for that long? Because of a simple stairwell? 

  


“It’s okay,” she said quickly, smiling her thanks. “I was just saying that the Davenport belonged to my grandmother. It doesn’t really fit with the rest of the décor, but I couldn’t part from it.” They stood in awkward silence for a moment while Harry tried to think of a reply that didn't sound completely trite. Elaine continued before he could come up with anything. "Oh, Dudley will be right down. He came back from his morning jog just before you came and is taking a shower. I should probably tell him you're here. He'll be so happy you came!" she repeated, hurrying out of the room before Harry could reply. 

  


Oh. Just as well, he supposed. Small talk had never been his forte. And it explained where Dudley was, not that Harry had had time to wonder. Now that his cousin was brought up, however, he couldn't stop thinking about him. What was Dudley like now? He'd lost a lot of weight during Harry's last few years with the Dursleys, and from the sound of it he'd at least kept up the exercise. The living room was free of the fast food and candy wrappings Harry associated with Dudley's bedroom; on the coffee table was a book, lying open face down, as though just put down. Elaine's? Harry was familiar with neither the title nor the author, but that was to be expected. He didn't keep up with muggle literature. 

  


He took a quick peek into the kitchen through the open door. Clean, lots of gleaming steel. A few greasy fingerprints visible on the fridge door, an electric kettle blowing steam into the air. A glass teapot, already filled with leaves. Harry backed away when he heard steps approaching on the floor above, settling back on the couch. 

  


Elaine gave him a tired smile as she descended the stairs. "He'll be here in a minute. He nearly cracked his skull in his haste to get out of the shower once I told him you were here." She laughed a little. Harry joined half-heartedly, heart beating fast. 

  


His grin fell off his face once Elaine went through the kitchen door. He'd faced down Voldemort, had been an Auror, and was generally regarded as one of the most powerful wizards of his time - yet the thought of meeting his cousin made his palms sweaty and his mouth dry up. Oh, if the Wizarding World could see him now! Their great saviour, terrified of meeting a muggle because two decades ago he'd been shoved around a bit. 

  


Well, maybe not terrified. Anxious. A bit apprehensive. Perhaps he should have asked Ginny or Hermione to accompany him. Perhaps he shouldn't have come at all. 

  


Wasn't this just turning out to be a pleasant visit? 

  


"Would you like some milk in your tea?" Elaine called from the kitchen. 

  


"No, thank you." He rubbed his palms against his legs in an effort to dry them. Why, he had no idea. It wasn't as though he was going to shake Dudley's hand. Or was he? What if Dudley wanted to shake hands? He certainly wouldn't want to hug, would he? How did you greet your estranged cousin whose favourite pastime used to be beating you up? He definitely should have asked Ginny or Hermione to come with him. Curse him and his Gryffindor tendencies, he thought. 

  


Then all thoughts fled his mind as a set of heavy footsteps rushed about on the upper floor. 

  


Harry's first impression of Dudley was simply: _big_. Not large in the way he used to be, too much fat and too little exercise, but rather the opposite. After getting his first good look at Dudley, who was just thundering down the stairs (Harry could hear a different, less agile set of footsteps thundering down the stairs over his cupboard, taking care to be extra loud and shaking the entire stairs until the dust rained down on Harry's head) he wondered distantly if it wasn't perhaps possible to exercise a little too much. If Dudley had been buff when they last saw each other he was now a mountain of a man. He'd always been taller and wider than Harry, but what had been mostly fat when they were children looked to be solid muscle now. 

  


Harry would bet that being shoved around by _this_ Dudley would hurt a lot more than being shoved around by the old Dudley. 

  


"Harry," Dudley breathed, coming to a stop a few feet away from him. Harry must have gotten up sometime during the last few seconds; he only noticed that he was nearer to eye-level with Dudley than he should have been sitting on the couch. They stood frozen, staring at each other. 

  


_This_ was Dudley Dursley? He could have run into him on the streets and wouldn't have recognised him. What had happened to the pig in a wig? 

  


"Oh, Harry," Dudley said again, more eloquent than Harry for maybe the first time in their lives. "It's really you." 

  


"I got your letter," Harry replied inanely. 

  


"I got an owl to deliver it," Dudley said. 

  


Harry blinked, the words finally penetrating through the fog in his mind and kick-starting his mind again. "You bought an owl to send a letter to me?" 

  


Dudley flushed, breaking eye contact. "Err, no." 

  


Harry frowned. 

  


"There's a forest not too far from here," Dudley continued, actually shuffling his feet. "I, uh, drove there and asked. The owls. If any knew you." His blush darkened when Harry just stared at him. "You're important in that world, right? I figured if you were famous one of them might know you and know where you live." 

  


"And an owl just swooped down and offered to deliver the letter?" Harry asked incredulously. 

  


Dudley shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. "It took a while, but yes. To be honest I think I was talking to the thin air for the most part, but I couldn't think of a different way to get the letter to you. I tried sending you a wedding invitation through the mail a couple of years ago, but that didn't work out." 

  


He'd mentioned something like that in the letter, Harry recalled. "The Ministry only intercepts letters to magical institutions," he explained absently. 

  


So Dudley had wanted him at his wedding? Harry wasn't sure how he felt about that; clearly, this Dudley was a far cry from his childhood tormenter. And he hadn't even flinched when Harry said magic, he realised with a start. Yet the idea that Dudley Dursley wanted to spent time with him, going so far as to appeal to wild owls just to deliver a letter, was absolutely surreal. He'd have called St. Mungo's if anyone had suggested it to him only an hour ago. 

  


And yet, look where he stood now. 

  


Dudley had no reply. They stood in awkward silence, staring at each other once more. Harry's mind completely blanked on anything he could have said. Today was a day of revelations, and each one left him reeling. Dudley, meanwhile, looked as though there was so much he wanted to say that he couldn't settle on anything. More than once he breathed in as if to say something and Harry tensed in anticipation, but each time Dudley would get this conflicted look on his face and breathe out again without uttering a word. They repeated this little ritual a few times until an overly cheery "Well, who wants tea?" cut through the tension, and Elaine came bustling into the living room, carrying the teapot Harry had seen earlier. Dudley shot his wife a grateful look. 

  


Elaine fussed with the cups and a little while later Harry sat on the couch once more, this time with a cup of steaming hot tea in his hand. He was pathetically grateful for having something to hold onto. 

  


"So, Harry," Elaine said, taking charge of the conversation once it became clear that neither Harry nor Dudley had any idea on how to continue. "I didn't even introduce myself properly. Elaine Dursley," she said, holding out her hand for him to shake. 

  


Harry quickly transferred the cup to his left and shook her hand. "Harry Potter, pleased to meet you," he said. He tried to give her a friendly smile but feared that it came out more like the grimace he made whenever he was forced to smile for the public. 

  


If it did, both Dudley and Elaine were tactful enough not to mention it. "No, the pleasure is all mine. It's lovely to finally meet you. Dudley's told me a little bit about you." 

  


"Has he?" Harry murmured, eyes drawn back to the stairwell. From the way Dudley stiffened he noticed were Harry's gaze had drifted. 

  


Then Elaine yawned widely. Her mouth snapped shut with a click, looking horrified. "Oh, I am so sorry! I don't know what came over me." She seemed distressed for a moment, before the same strange calm as Harry had witnessed before washed over her. "I suppose I must be rather tired." 

  


Harry hummed as Dudley turned his concerned gaze to his wife. "You haven't caught a cold, have you?" he asked. "You've been tired yesterday as well." 

  


"Yesterday, you say?" Harry asked. "That was when your daughter...." He trailed off, gesturing with his teacup in a way he hoped said 'when your daughter magicked her hair red'. 

  


"Yes," Dudley said, sitting up straight. "One moment we were arguing, and the next her hair was bright red. She's blonde," he added. Seeing her parents Harry couldn't say he was surprised. "It's definitely," he paused, glancing at Elaine worriedly before finishing, "magic." 

  


There was a split second when Elaine didn't react at all, before she rolled her eyes. "It's a trick, Dudley. Magic isn't real." But her words lacked conviction. 

  


Harry had seen his fair share of magical mishaps over the years. He hadn't had to deal with magical accidents involving children all that often, but it was pretty obvious where this was going. "When the hair changed colour, where you upset?" he asked lightly, setting the teacup down. 

  


"I guess so," Elaine answered. She sighed. "We were having an argument; things were pretty intense before Holly did whatever it was she did, and her little trick certainly didn't help matters." 

  


"Did Holly notice that you were upset?" 

  


Elaine cocked her head. "I suppose. Dudley convinced her to go to her room before I could get truly cross." She paused for a moment. "It was a bit of a shock seeing her hair change so suddenly." 

  


"I bet it was," Harry said, taking out his wand. Dudley's eyes widened, making Harry grip the wood self-consciously. "Do you mind?" he asked. 

  


Dudley looked from the wand to Harry and back again. Then he reared back a bit, as if struck. "You don't think Holly did anything to Elaine, do you?" he asked, half-way between incredulous and affronted. "She's her mother!" 

  


"Not on purpose," Harry was quick to reassure. "She might have unconsciously tried to make her mum less upset and her magic reacted to the wish. A child's magical core grows in spurts, sometimes causing accidental magic. Add to that the second and third paradigms of Charlene the Curious' rules of Magical Happenstance and you get what I suspect is a very mild case of a calming spell." 

  


He'd completely lost Dudley, which had been Harry's intention. He used the moment of distraction to cast a simply diagnostic spell they had learned during Auror training on Elaine, and as expected, the spell showed a hint of magical residue. If Elaine had been magic the spell likely wouldn't have had any kind of effect, a witch's natural resilience counteracting the weak spell the moment it tried to settle on her mind. 

  


Not that the spell had that a great an effect on Elaine anyway. Harry suspected that Holly had wished that her mum calmed down; it would explain why her shock and incredulity earlier had been dampened immediately and the tiredness was probably a result of the magic causing her to 'calm down' to the point of fatigue. 

  


Harry pulled out a small vial from his potions pouch - another remnant of his Auror days - and handed it to Elaine. "That should take care of it." 

  


Elaine took the vial, but looked at Dudley for reassurance. Dudley, meanwhile, eyed the potion sceptically. "What's that?" 

  


"A simple Pepperup potion," Harry said, fighting hard not to get irritated. He was only helping; wasn't that why Dudley had asked him to come here? Harry flashed back to the summer before fifth year, when he and Dudley had been attacked by a Dementor. He'd helped then, too, and what had he gotten for his trouble? Being yelled at by Vernon. "It will make the fatigue go away. It also gets rid of colds," he added when neither of them looked particularly reassured. 

  


He was slightly mollified when Dudley, after sneaking a searching look at Harry, gestured to his wife to go ahead. Elaine took a careful sniff of the potion before swallowing the whole thing at once. By the time Harry remembered that it might have been a good idea to warn them about the side effects, steam was already shooting out of Elaine's ears, causing Dudley to shout and fall back. 

  


Harry would be lying if he said he wasn't tempted to laugh. 

  


"It's all right, that's supposed to happen!" Harry called over the minor commotion, trying to head off any explosion (of temper, this time) off at the pass. "The steaming will stop in a little while." He hoped. Ron once hadn't stopped steaming for almost two days. There were few things as amusing as watching a grown man order a Quidditch team around while a constant stream of steam escaped his ears. 

  


"Woah," Elaine exclaimed suddenly. "Holy...." She stared at Harry wide-eyed. "That was...." she trailed off again. "You're magic!" She pointed an accusing finger at him. "You're magic!" Then, "Oh, my god. _Holly_ is magic?" She whirled towards Dudley. " _You knew_?" 

  


Dudley, meanwhile, didn't move from his position on the floor. "You're smoking," he said weakly. 

  


"It's just steam," Harry interjected quickly. The last thing he needed was anyone getting the wrong idea and thinking he'd set his cousin-in-law on fire. 

  


Elaine lifted a hand towards her ear, snatching her fingers back the moment they came in contact with the hot air. "I'm smoking," she whispered, sounding not much stronger than her husband had. She sunk into an armchair. "Oh, god." 

  


Harry shifted awkwardly. "Err, it really is just steam," he said. 

  


Elaine rubbed her fingers against each other, feeling the moisture left there. She lifted her head and stared at Harry in amazement. "You really are magic, aren't you?" 

  


"Harry Potter," Harry said, hoping his smile was charming and playful rather than awkward and uncomfortable. "Wizard, at your service." 

  


An uneasy silence settled over the living room. Elaine and Dudley remained frozen where they were, while Harry desperately cast around for something to say or do. His gaze fell on the empty vial now lying on the ground and he absently summoned it to him, only noticing what he did when Elaine gasped. 

  


Harry grimaced. He wished he knew what Minerva had done when she explained magic to the families of Muggleborns. He was probably doing everything wrong and a few things besides. 

  


"So, err," he said, clearing his throat. "About Holly and her hair..?" It had been the reason why Dudley had written him in the first place, after all. 

  


"She's still asleep," Dudley said. Harry's eyebrows shot up. After that ruckus? At, Harry checked the clock on the thin VCR, ten thirty in the morning? "She's a heavy sleeper. And a late riser." 

  


"We don't know where she gets it from," Elaine added, still staring at Harry. 

  


Harry snorted. He knew exactly where she got it from, and a quick look at a flushing Dudley told him that he knew it too. They shared a wry grin, almost like a peace offering, and Dudley finally picked himself up from the floor. 

  


"Right, I'll go and get her. You'll be able to turn her hair back?" 

  


"Of course. It's probably nothing more than a simple colour changing charm." Harry waved the concern away. In most cases accidental magic was incredibly weak compared to proper spells. That Holly's magic had been able to produce something as sophisticated as the calming spell probably really was due to the second and third paradigms of Magical Happenstance - Recurrence of Magical Happenstance and Resurgence of Magical Happenstance, with thanks to Hermione and her eternal quest to research everything and _share_ everything she researched. Besides, he had three magical kids. Harry had experience with accidental magic. 

  


Dudley nodded, then hesitated in the doorway. He turned around again, and asked, almost shyly, "Will you be staying for lunch? I think... There's some things I'd like to talk to you about." 

  


Harry gazed at his cousin, who had changed so much over the years that he was almost like a different person. He remembered the last sentence of his letter, about wanting to talk and to apologise. Harry had long stopped needing or wanting anything from the Dursleys'. The years of silence between them hadn't caused him any heartache, but looking at Dudley now, the show of trust when he had not only turned to Harry for help but had trusted him enough to allow him to perform magic on his wife... 

  


Yes, Harry thought. "I'd like that." 

  



End file.
